I've been a member of DeviantART for 11 years.
They should just GIVE people subscriptions at ten years, don't you think?
I haven't written in this journal in seven years. THAT'S even weirder, to me.
I guess I started this account when I was sixteen? Seventeen? Still no good with math. That's just about all I still have in common with my teenage self.
I used to post all my angsty teenage poetry here. It's too bad that we grow up, develop these terribly judgmental lenses through which we view the entire WORLD. I wish I could still appreciate the simple, small things.
Do you know it's been about seven years since I've written a poem?
Why did my ability to write poems stop so abruptly, and is it really gone forever?
Is there something I can do to make it return?
I'd probably write great poems, if I could. My understanding of the world has vastly expanded since those high school days of English class assignments and study hall diaries.
Today, one of my PTSD recovery buddies made me a whole youtube video. She called me "The Phoenix". A lot of people have called me that this year.
I don't know where I'm going with this, but I'm writing, and I'm going to keep on until this part of my brain shuts off and I go back into mental illness.
So some horrible things happened.
In July of 2012, I met a guy (later established as a sociopath) and fell under his spell. He convinced me to leave my home and become homeless, camping with him in the woods. I blankly followed, believing his delusions about being sent from God to save me.
Within two weeks, an unbelievable twist of fate occurred. We were both arrested... and (wrongfully) accused of attempted murder, kidnapping, and three assault and batteries.
We were absolutely without a clue.
The alleged victim was a complete stranger to us both.
We were imprisoned and then held on house arrest, before the charges went before a grand jury, and the case was finally dismissed (9/12/14). No evidence. No witnesses. No crime.
We both stood by the truth, refusing plea bargains from the District Attorney of this particular town, who began to swiftly realize what we knew to be true: it was a made up story. The alleged victim was discovered to be very mentally disturbed.
However, the local media had such a field day with our nightmare... no, MY nightmare (fuck him), there was just no way that the case could be dropped and swept under the rug.
Fourteen months, that damn case was open. Charge by charge, dropped. "Victim" changes story, several times.
Lawyers saying don't worry, there is virtually no chance that you will be convicted of any of these charges. The entire courthouse gradually begins to treat us differently on our monthly pre-trial hearings.
Just wait. Prediction: dropped case on the eve of trial.
Outcome: Correct. Set to go to trial 9/24, case dismissed 9/12. On what grounds? DNA testing came back, confirming that there was no possible way that the story was true.
Of course, the DA's office refuses to comment.
In the meantime, my co-defendant is cracking under the pressure. He's been to jail before, yes, but never for something he didn't do.
He begins to abuse me.
I am his captive, in a camper, in a remote location. Freezing. The winter of later 2012-early 2013. I will never forget those terrors. Every night, they haunt me in my sleep. Every morning, I wake up crying. Disoriented from the meds. Where am I.
It has been a year since the day the police finally responded to that obstructed 911 call.
A year since I've been free.
Well that's a joke.
I've lost everything. My hopes for taking legal recourse to get compensation for the endless list of things THEY took from me and ruined for me? Shattered. Circumstances. Not a foreseeably feasible case. No lawyers interested.
No income, for 1 1/2 years.
Living in a basement. Agorophobic. Terrified of everything. Living in a sick, self-contained and self-imposed prison cell. Memories on repeat.
I should have lots to write about now, right?
But I find no words. No interest in even speaking them.
My story would probably make me money if I wrote it all down and sold it as a book.
Can I do that right now? Psh, no. Can I even write a sentence down in a diary? No. Can I go a day without dissociating, having a flashback, having a night terror, wanting to hurt myself, wishing for the days long gone that will never again be?
Who is writing this? It does not feel like my own hands.
I am crippled with hopelessness. At least, I was.
All of life seems to be on pause, as these words appear to grow across this screen.
A candle beside me just split its glass holder loudly. The flame reached out toward the altar cloth beneath it. I jumped up and blew out the candle.
Now it is not... right in here. The lighting is off.
My tooth hurts.
All of my teeth hurt.
I think of: pliers. Blood. No-- it would ruin the carpet. As I drop another pile of cigarette ashes onto the floor.
I called a psychic hotline this fall. I asked them "where do I turn for help?". They told me that they sensed I had some kind of story or message to tell, and that I needed to pursue something in the field of writing or public speaking.
How would they know that?
Oh, I've learned to read tarot cards. I'm getting pretty good.
If only it were a skill I could make money with. I'd do well for myself.
If I could do... anything.
Well, the black cloud is rolling back in.
Listening to: silence
Reading: tarot cards
Watching: the paint peel
Playing: the waiting game
Eating: what's that